She tried to stand, but the movement made her retch. The smell of wet leather and sweat still stung her nostrils.
She finally hauled herself to her feet, staggered to the bushes and was violently sick.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Now then, Mum, about this camel trekking.” According to Bev, his mother was on the verge of booking this confounded holiday. Dylan had to put a stop to it. “You’re not really serious, are you?”
“Of course I am. It’ll be fun.”
He was relieved to see she looked better than she had last weekend. Perhaps having Luke to stay had tired her more than it should have. She struggled to sit still for a minute, was always looking to have fun, so it was no wonder that, at her age, she overdid it at times.
“Fun? Mum, it won’t. They’ve done a good job of selling it in the brochure, but it’ll be murder. We’d be hot, dusty, dirty, thirsty, uncomfortable—”
“Nonsense. Luke thought it would be wonderful.”
“You’ve told Luke?” How could she do that? More surprising, why hadn’t Luke mentioned it? They’d spent most of the day together and he hadn’t said a word.
“Of course I didn’t.” She scowled at him. Great, now she was annoyed that he could think her so stupid. “I merely mentioned it in passing to see if it was something he fancied. He did, which means he’s not a stick-in-the-mud like his dad. How I gave birth to you, Dylan, I have no idea.”
He needed to head her off before she recalled every painful minute of childbirth.
“It’s just not practical, Mum.”
“Of course it is. Think of Luke. When he gets back to school after the summer break and has to do the dreaded ‘what I did on holiday’ essay—which he will because teachers are the nosiest folk on the planet—Bev excepted, of course—he’ll be the envy of the school. How many kids could top that?”
“A tent in Skegness would top it!”
She hooted with laughter. “You do talk a load of nonsense, Dylan!”
He took a deep breath and tried not to envy all the men who were living in their own homes, about to go to bed with their own wives, having spent an enjoyable, relaxing weekend with their families, men whose mothers went to bingo on Friday nights and were tucked up with their cocoa at this time on a Sunday night.
“I’m getting a beer. Do you want one?” he asked.
“No, thanks, love.”
Dylan went to the fridge, took out a can and rested it against his forehead in a moment of despair. All the beer in the world wouldn’t turn his mother into someone normal. Still, it might numb the pain slightly.
When he carried it into the sitting room, she was rolling a joint.
Why me, Lord? Why pick on me? Why do I have to live in a flat that reeks of scented candles and bloody marijuana?
“Bev thinks that half your problems are down to not knowing your father.” She lit her joint and inhaled deeply. “Perhaps she’s right.”
It would be good if his mother and his wife had more to do with their time than discuss the freak they’d either married or given birth to.
The only advantage to knowing his father as far as Dylan could see was that he could go to the man, throw the joint-smoking woman sitting opposite at him and say “your responsibility, mate, not mine.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” he said. “And I don’t think I’ve got problems. It’s the rest of you.”
“I can tell you who it might have been,” she murmured. “And I know you were conceived in Turkey. They were heady times, love.”
“Apparently. And really, it doesn’t matter, Mum.”
“Well, I’ve never thought so.”
Dylan stretched out on the sofa in an effort to relax. It was difficult when she was in one of her more reflective moods. She rarely looked back, she was far too busy looking forward to camel trekking and other equally ridiculous ways to waste time.
“So how are things going in Lancashire?” she asked and he was glad of the change of subject.
“They’re not.”
“What sort of answer’s that?”
“An honest one. I can come up with several suspects, several people who might have wanted Sam Hunt out of way, but there’s nothing terribly convincing.”
Jack Fleming might not have liked the idea of becoming a father, and he also had a temper when his girlfriends upset him, but it was more likely he’d dump Sam and pay a bit of maintenance when necessary.
If James Carlton really was making fraudulent insurance claims, he might want Sam silenced. He was also the last person to see Sam alive—apart from her father, of course. Carlton was an astute, if cheating, businessman and Sam was a twenty-two-year-old who read mystery novels. He was unlikely to kill her to silence her.
According to the message she left on Jack’s answer machine, if indeed that was genuine, Sam had learned something horrible before her disappearance. It had nothing to do with James Carlton, she’d said. Before making that phone call, she’d seen her sisters, her mother and stepfather. Was it something connected to Alan Roderick? But what?
“You’ll get there in the end, love.” His mother was smoking the last centimetre of her happy tobacco.
“I hope so. I’m going to have a chat with her best friend tomorrow so perhaps she’ll help.” Dylan had been through Sam’s address book but Yvonne, who people said was her best friend, had been on holiday for a fortnight. “If Sam confided in anyone, it would have been her. Perhaps.”
“And then what? When you’ve found out what happened to the poor girl, will you concentrate on getting your marriage problems solved?”
“What?” God, she really was the limit. “What the hell can I do? Until Bev sees sense, I’m stuck with the situation.”
“You could put some effort in. You need to show Bev that you’re not the miserable git who came out of prison. You need to prove to her that you’ve got your self-respect back, that you’re still the man she married.”
Of course he was the man she married. Unlike Bev, he was an easygoing, steady type of bloke. He hadn’t changed. Ever.
“How can I do that when getting into the house, my house, is like getting into Fort Knox?”
“Use your imagination, for heaven’s sake.”
There was no point arguing with her. No point taking advice from her, either. As the woman had never come close to tying the knot and didn’t even know who her child’s father was, she couldn’t be classed an expert on marital problems.
Instead of dwelling on the idea of his mother having sex with some slinky-hipped waiter in Turkey, or anyone at all come to that, he needed to sort out his clothes for the coming week. Sort out meant wash. He didn’t have a single clean shirt. Not one.
The one on his back had been clean until he and Luke had grabbed a quick lunch in McDonalds and Dylan had ended up with ketchup down his front. He’d done his best to mop it up, but still saw the way Bev rolled her eyes and gave a tight smile of satisfaction at the stain.
He was in her good books—flowers had amazing powers—but he refused to give her the impression he couldn’t look after himself.
He went to his room, gathered up enough shirts to fill the washing machine—then dropped them on the floor when his phone rang.
It took a minute, tops, to find it but when he tried to return the missed call, no one answered. No one had left a message and he didn’t recognise the number.
Any sane person would have forgotten it and washed shirts happy in the knowledge that it was either a wrong number or, if it had been important, someone would call back. Unfortunately, in this instance, Dylan didn’t qualify as sane. He checked everywhere he might have made a note of someone’s cell-phone number. Nothing. He searched for the number on Google. Nothing.
Two hours later, just as he’d decided to climb over a pile of dirty shirts to his bed, he found the number. It was in Sam Hunt’s address book beneath a neatly written Mum’s Mobile.
Dylan rang the number again, but no one answered.
What had Marion Roderick wanted with him?
Chapter Twenty-Six
At last. Finally, Anca had found someone who spoke her language. On first sight, she’d thought the woman was about thirty but, beneath the makeup and the long, curling hair, it was clear that she was about forty, maybe even older. She was slim, with painted fingernails, and was wearing a long silk garment that was like nothing Anca had ever seen. It was tied at the waist with a silk sash and, if Anca guessed correctly, she was naked beneath it.
“This is where we’ll be working, yes?”
“Yes. Come along.”
Anca and Crina followed her up a staircase that seemed to go on forever. It was late and had been dark for hours.
“What will we be doing? Is this a hotel?”
Anca’s question was ignored. Instead, the woman carried on walking up the stairs. Anca was too tired to repeat her question.
Crina didn’t look well. Come to that, Anca didn’t feel well. She had no idea how long they’d been locked away. At one point, she’d thought they were on a boat. Later, she’d felt wheels rumbling on a road. That had gone on for what had seemed like hours.
When the rumbling stopped, the lid of that chest had been opened. It had been dark then too. A big man said something in a language Anca didn’t recognise. His words must have been kind though because he’d dropped sandwiches and two bottles of water in the chest.
Anca had tried to speak to him, but he’d slammed down the lid. Crina had been asleep at the time and Anca had felt too weak to protest. She was still weak.
The woman pushed open a door and walked into a small room where six narrow mattresses filled most of the available floor space. Harsh light came courtesy of an unshaded light bulb. A set of six drawers sat in the corner.
“Yours.” She pointed at two mattresses on the far side of the room. “Sleep now.”
“But what about—?”
The woman flicked off the light and closed the door behind her. Anca gasped as she heard a key turn. She grabbed the handle and tried to open the door but it was locked.
“We’re locked in.” Crina’s voice wobbled. “Why has she locked us in, Anca?”
Anca hammered on the door. “Come back!”
“Anca?” Crina cried.
“I don’t know.” Anca was furious. And a little frightened. “I’ll speak to her tomorrow. I expect it’s very late and she’s had to stay up waiting for us.” There was nothing else for it. “Let’s get some sleep.”
They’d slept for hours so Anca couldn’t understand why she still felt exhausted. Perhaps it was the inoculation the doctor had given them.
“It doesn’t matter, Crina.” She tried to sound optimistic and cheerful. “We’ll talk to her tomorrow and find out about the work we’ll be expected to do. When we have time off, we’ll see about getting a place of our own. We’ll have an apartment, just you and me. It’ll be fine.”
“I want to go home.” That was all Crina had said for hours.
“Well you can’t. What? You thought it was easy to get to England? Think again. If it was, everyone would do it, wouldn’t they?” Anca threw herself down on the narrow mattress. It was so thin she could feel the floorboards through it. She could feel the damp too. “Get some sleep, Crina.”
Anca couldn’t sleep. Like Crina, she longed for home. It had been more comfortable on the benches outside Bucharest Station. At least they hadn’t smelled of urine. She was sure this mattress did.
The sky was inky black but there must have been a streetlight below them because an orange glow came through the tiny slanted window to cast a little light in the room.
A few cars drove past but she didn’t think it was a busy street. There were a lot of noises coming from the building. People were walking on the stairs. Men were laughing.
They must be in a hotel, she reasoned. It was late yet there were a lot of people about. It must be a busy hotel. Tomorrow, they would probably be shown their own room. Tomorrow night, they would sleep in a proper bed.
Anca was drifting off to sleep when the door opened. She clutched the thin sheet to her chin and sat upright.
A girl of about her own age came in and Anca heard the sound of the key being turned from the outside again.
Ignoring Anca and Crina, the newcomer threw herself down on the mattress next to Crina and burst into noisy tears.
“What is it?” Anca asked. “What’s the matter?”
The crying subsided slightly. “You’re Romanian?”
“Yes. From Bucharest.” Anca was thrilled to hear the familiar language. “You too?”
“Yes.” The sobs turned to hiccoughs.
“Whatever’s the matter?” Anca asked again.
“When did you arrive?”
“An hour or so ago.” Anca wished the girl would calm down so they could have a conversation. “What about you?”
“Last week.” She took a shuddering breath. “Who’s that?”
“Crina, my sister. I’m Anca, by the way. What’s your name?”
“My name? God, I hardly know anymore. Here, they call me Maria. What are they calling you?”
“What do you mean? My name’s Anca.”
Maria, or whatever her name was, turned her head and, in the orange glow and with her eyes accustomed to the gloom, Anca saw the bruises.
“What happened to your face?”
Maria touched her cheek. “I said no. A word of warning, never utter that word.”
“How do you mean?”
“Do you know why you’re here yet?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve come to work. A man we met in Bucharest—”
“The lovely George?”
“You know George?” A shiver of unease tracked down Anca’s spine. None of this felt right.
“Oh, yes. If I hadn’t met him, I’d still be at home.”
“He brought us here. He said he’d find us work and we could pay him back. Tell me, is this a hotel?”
“A hotel?” Maria laughed. It was a laugh that quickly turned to crying again. “No, it’s not a hotel.”
“Then what is it? Where are we?” Anca’s voice wavered. She knew, deep in her heart, what this place was, just as she knew she’d been taken for a fool.
“Where the hell do you think you are? Hmm? Okay, words of one syllable. The girls here are like you. And me. And her.” She pointed at Crina. “The men want young girls, the younger the better, who won’t—or can’t—say no to anything they demand.”
“Sex?”
“Some would call it that, yes.”
Bile rose in Anca’s throat. She’d been a naive, trusting simpleton. “This can’t be right. I mean, not us. Crina’s only thirteen.”
“Then she’ll be extremely popular, won’t she?”
Maria lay face down and sobbed into her mattress.
Anca could have wept with her, but there was no point. Tears achieved nothing, she’d learned that much. Instead, she left her mattress and began hammering on the door. She’d got them into this mess. She would damn well get them out of it.
“There’s been a mistake. We’re in the wrong place. I demand to talk to someone. Now. Do you hear me?”
If they did, they were keeping quiet.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The following evening, Dylan met up with a bleary-eyed, tanned woman at Jesters, Dawson’s Clough’s new wine bar. Yvonne, Sam’s best friend, had chosen the venue because it was next door to the travel agent’s offices where she worked.
He carried their drinks to the table. Without asking, the girl behind the bar had put a straw in Yvonne’s Bacardi Breezer bottle. She didn’t seem to mind. Or even notice.
“Thanks,” she said.
“First day back at work?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah. It’s always depressing, isn’t it?”
“It is. All you do is think you could be in a sunny beach bar, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I suppose you get a discount on holidays, do you?” he asked.
“Not like we used to, unfortunately.”
A lot of office workers used Jesters. Men and women dressed in suits dropped briefcases on the floor and sat on tall bright red stools to enjoy the first drink of the day. Dylan was pleased that he and Yvonne had managed to grab one of the half dozen tables in the place.
Apart from looking tired and fed up, Yvonne was an attractive girl. The same age as Sam, she was tall and very slim, with long, almost black hair hanging down to her waist. Her makeup was perfect, from pink lips to extra-long dark eyelashes.
He’d phoned her several times over the last week but it was only yesterday morning, when her plane had landed at Manchester, that he’d got a response.
Someone else he hadn’t been able to get hold of was Marion Roderick. He’d tried her cell phone all day, but she hadn’t answered.
“Why are you looking for Sam?” Yvonne sucked Bacardi up the straw. “Why you, I mean? And why after all this time?”
“Her father’s employed me.” Dylan was sticking to the truth. If Yvonne knew Sam, it was almost certain she knew Jack. There was no point lying about his identity. “You’re best friends, I gather?”
“Yeah. We met on the first day of school, when we were five. We’ve been mates ever since.”
“So you know her well? Well enough to know if she had things on her mind, if she had plans to go somewhere, meet someone?”
“I did—and she didn’t. I told the police that. Over and over, I told them that she wouldn’t have gone off without a word to no one. Something happened to her.”
“What about her boyfriend?”
“Jack’s all right. I told the coppers that, an’ all. Everyone says he’s a bit of a tosser, but I’ve always got on well with him.” She took a swig of her drink. “The police hauled him off, you know. Bloody idiots. He doted on her.” She traced a wistful finger along a scar in the wooden table. “He was forever calling her just to tell her he loved her. He sent her flowers when it wasn’t her birthday or nothing. Oh, yeah, and once, he had an I Love You balloon delivered to her at work. He was as soft as shit where she was concerned. I told the coppers all that.”
Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 16